


(Watch me make them bow) One by, one by one

by unfinishedpages



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Brief NonCon scene, Characters and tags to be added accordingly, Graphic Description of Corpses, Heavy stuff here wow, I don't even know how to tag this, M/M, Multi, Non-Graphic Violence, Red Sparrow AU, The Seho is so brief okay, spy AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 05:32:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16826146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unfinishedpages/pseuds/unfinishedpages
Summary: Perhaps, Jongin wasn't the perfect Sparrow for this job.





	(Watch me make them bow) One by, one by one

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly don't know where I am going with this so I'm sorry if you've read the book Red Sparrow already, I just butchered it so hard. Adulting and writing at the same time is not recommended for your sanity-don't do it kids.
> 
> This was supposedly my entry for the 2018 cycle of Exogeddon, but real life got in the way and my creativity was a standstill for months on end. 
> 
> aka exo ain't the only one making a delayed comeback this year kids
> 
> Title from Billie Eilish's song 'You Should See Me In a Crown.'

_ Hail Mary,  _

The bile rising from his stomach stung much, much more than the fingernails raking down his sides as he let the other have his way with him, calloused hands too rough for the soft skin of the inside of his thighs.

_ Full of Grace,  _

The only thing he could register was the sensation of someone forcing themselves into him, struggling to breathe with the heavy hand pressing down the back of his neck, face rubbing against the silk of the bedding, jaw clenching and teeth clacking together as the wooden post of the bed smacked into the wall, denting the plaster.

_ the Lord is with thee. _

__

“Baby,” He wheezed out as best as he can, whimpering in a way that only fueled the other’s need to dominate and defile. “Let me—ah—let me on top—oh fuck.” He could only hope that the desperate, dick drunk façade was convincing enough for him to change positions, or else he would have just let himself be broken apart for nothing.

_ Blessed are thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus.  _

__

The other man smirked, fingers tight and unforgiving as he reached over to grip his jaw hard to pull him up. “You want to do all the work?” They had whispered, breath hot and stinking of liquor against his check. He could only nod with his jaw clenched, eyes shut tightly. “Alright. Show me how you want it, slut.”

_ Holy Mary, _

Manhandled into yet another position—his thighs splayed over the other’s hips, his own hands over their chest. “God, you are desperate for it, aren’t you?” He breathed out, obviously entranced with the way he moved his hips to maintain the fantasy, before the climax. “Only for you.”

Keep adding fuel to the fire—almost there, he thought as the bruising grip on his hips and ass only got tighter.

_ Mother of God,  _

__

He leaned down as the hand on his thigh trailed up to his neck to pull him down, his hand steadying himself on the sturdy chest as the other slipped under the side of the mattress to pull a small knife. “I’m close.” He moaned out, hips rocking to disorient the other before he lifted his other hand, palm tight around the cold metal to strike down hard.

__

_ Pray for us sinners,  _

__

Feeling him go rigid under his body, he twisted the knife harder into the other’s chest before dislodging it, the blade grinding against broken ribs. He used to prefer going straight for the neck, but then again, the spray of blood in his face and mouth were very much unwelcome to him at this point.

He granted himself a moment to savour the sensation of the metal breaking its way through bone and flesh, but he had savoured it a moment too long, as the man had already pushed him off.

_ Now and at the hour of our death. _

__

He sighed as the horrified look on the man’s face, those big hands shaking as he stared at the gaping wound on his chest before whisking his beady-eyed gaze at him, ablaze with anger. Clicking his tongue, it looked like he had to do his the old-fashioned way.

_ Amen. _

__

_ \-- _

__

Jongin blearily remembered a simpler time where the sharp scent of mint from the liniment patches lining his back and shoulders wasn’t preceded by the metallic smell of blood on his hands that refused to disappear for days as he stepped out of the room, his expensive dress shoes sinking into the plush carpeting.

He tossed the room a careful glance making sure to get rid of any evidence, before staring at the lifeless body on the bed as he fiddled with the flash drive in his hands, staring at the dull metal.

Such a tiny thing, yet it held so much information.

The sort of information that could start wars and drive nations to dust.

And it was all in his hands for the next few hours until pick up. He could go and run to the nearest embassy—Berlin had the plethora of nations he could run to and plead for protection in exchange for information, but he wasn’t that stupid.

That would only lead him faster to damnation.

_ They  _ always find the lost birds and clip their wings to make an example.

Murmuring his thanks to the doorman, Jongin smiled and pulled his coat closer to himself. The chill in the wind didn’t bite at his skin, but the gentle brush of wool against his aching muscles seemed more of an action of self-assurance, and mostly to protect his side from brisk walkers and other commuters.

Being slammed against a wall wasn’t new to him, especially in his line of work, but goddamn, that fucker had a lot of fight in him when he found out that Jongin wasn’t just a pretty face with a pair of legs he could slide easily into.

A couple of broken ribs was nothing to what he reduced that man into.

Clean up would wrinkle their nose at his sloppy work, whispering comments under their breaths about it unbecoming for someone of his rank and experience, but better a tap on the wrist from a lower division than a harsh reprimand from upstairs.

Jongin had worked too hard for way too long just to fuck up such a menial job and busy himself with tasked some people were paid specifically to do.

Pick up was just a few hours later—nothing more than a brush of the shoulders against the other and he would have delivered with his half of the job, only to be sent across the border of Germany to another country where he’s to do someone else’s dirty work and not get any credit for it.

Not that he ever wanted any credit for all the things he’s done—the crippling shame always had him gripping a beretta into the late hours of the night with a half-empty bottle of vodka in his other hand, the gun power and sharp alcohol dulling and sharpening his mind simultaneously.

As he turned into the corner into a more populated street, Jongin thought about how he never knew who specifically would pick up the delivery, but he could always tell. With the way their eyes trailed him for hours as he walked down the streets of the city, admiring the sights with the little false sense of freedom he had to his cover.

Clearly, they hadn’t been trained in things like subtlety in the way Jongin was trailed in, but as long as they got it out of his hands, he couldn’t give two shits about how terrible they were in keeping cover.

_ Oh _ , that was unexpected, Jongin thought as someone bumped into him. The unprompted protest died on the tip of his tongue when he had looked up and pretended as if that didn’t knock his ribs out of place, despite the amount of effort he put into his perfectly crafted façade.

It was another one like him.

Tall, pretty and sharp features, but this one hadn’t been trained the same way he was. Obviously not for the same purposes, or the same market.

They met eyes for a number of seconds, before the other smiled at him, murmuring an apology in perfect English. “Sorry about that. I’m a tourist, and I’m getting quite a bit lost.” He explained, the practiced coyness of his words evident with the way he looked to the right before scratching a spot behind his ear.

Jongin merely smiled back, the picture of regret. “I wish I could help, but I do have somewhere to rush to.” He replied, before noting the way the other immediately shoved his hands into the deep pockets of his coat.

His part of the job has been done. “Enjoy Berlin, now.” Jongin added, before turning away.

Nations can fall and crumble into dust for all Jongin cared, as he disappeared into the crowd, his accomplished mission already at the back of his mind.

\--

The second time they meet is in Amsterdam, mere days later, in an old apartment complex with rusted gates and numerous doors lining the wide corridors, decades-old paint crackling off the surface.

Jongin had just gotten off the plane, head reeling from jetlag and the information packet he had haphazardly absorbed to come up with another identity—another flimsy mask to cast off along with every evidence of his new mission.

After knocking three times onto the wooden door, a tall figure swung it open. He peeked out the door and into the hallway a few times before he opened it wide enough for Jongin to enter. “Hello.” Jongin provided, focusing his gaze onto the living room before falling onto the other man who disappeared into the kitchen to refill his empty glass.

He had sniffed at the air—wine, and by the slight stagger in his steps, he had quite a lot of it.

It was old but relatively tasteful. He wondered how many people like him have lived within these walls—beige and suffocating. “I’m Kai.” Jongin provided, testing the waters with this one by letting some semblance of friendliness seep into his voice.

The other sparrow re-merged into the room with a flourish of his suede cardigan, all tall limbs falling ungracefully on one of the lived-in couches. “Shixun.” The other had provided, smiling at him carelessly with a flush on his boyish face.

“Are you from Japan, Kai?” Shixun asked, despite fully knowing who and what Jongin was, but then again, the walls have ears and they had too many secrets to be careless even with one of their own. “I grew up there.” Jongin supplied the lie easily, shedding his coat.

He grunted softly as he heaved himself off the couch, gesturing for the other to follow him without his wine glass sloshing around. “Come on, I’ll show you around.”

Shixun pointed a slender hand towards the open kitchen to their right, the walls lined with cupboards and a window overlooking the city, slurring his words as he opened them to show Jongin their contents before he got up and walked towards the small hallway which led to another bedroom and a small bathroom, which they were to share.

“This is your room,” Shixun said, digging into his pockets to fish out a set of keys to open the door to reveal a sparsely decorated room. “Keys to the door, the bathroom and your room.” He explained, before leaving Jongin to his own devices as he dropped the keys onto the bed as the older man stood awkwardly in the hallway, taking in the sights.

Jongin stared at the other door at the end of the hall. “What about that room?”

“That’s mine. Best we keep out of each other’s businesses, yeah.” Shixun grinned at him cheekily, but Jongin caught the underlying threat in his tone. Normally, Jongin wouldn’t even bat an eye if Shixun had dropped dead in front of him, but it’s best to keep his tongue in line and avoid starting fights with unnecessary people.

“Of course.” He smiled, the picture of innocence as he sat down primly on the bed, lifting his eyes to stare up into Shixun’s eyes.

\--

Once he had managed to send his report over the events of last week’s mission—one of the easier ones; throw a little coy smile, get into their good graces to get them into bed to buy enough time for him to get anything of relevance, and then leave as another nameless pretty face used for a small bit of fun—he had managed to drink himself into a stupor over the terrible alcohol Shixun kept under the sink cabinet.

He’d replace it, Jongin promised he downed another shot of whatever poison he was shoving into his mouth.

The compliments over his good work could never quite quash down the contempt and disgust that snaked its way on his chest and lungs as the events replayed in his head like a broken record.

Guilt was never one of the things he felt in those situations he was forced to relive his missions for the sake of submitting a report, anger and the urgency to stay alive overshadowed those most of the time—he never regretted anything he had done, since of course, it was his own stupidity and impatience was what got him into the Fifth Institute.

Jongin laughed bitterly as he sat by the kitchen counter, his hand poised against the open window to flick the ashes of his cigarette into the outside air, eyes distracted as memories of his previous life flashed before his eyes like an old film reel, fading and blurred around the edges.

Once Jongin had been the darling, the pride, and joy of one of the most prestigious ballet academies in the world. Through sheer grit and bravado, he had gracefully clawed his way up into his mentors’ good graces, and much to his colleagues’ distaste and envy.

He knew he shouldn’t have shrugged off the budding green monster in the dressing rooms, as it cost him his entire career and future.

Whoever followed him home that night—they knew what to come after. They didn’t come after his wallet or phone, they came after something more valuable.

His legs.

All he could remember from that night was the metal pipe they swung at his body, the burst of white-hot pain, even as he yelled for them to stop thru his aching throat and lightheadedness.

It was as if a rug had been pulled under him when he woke up in the hospital for nearly a week later—his mother’s worried face slowly coming into view and his uncle’s signature cold gaze focused somewhere else but his face.

Jongin followed his uncle’s gaze below, trying to get his eyes to focus despite the haze of morphine and concentrated oxygen in his system and stared at his leg, suspended in a metal brace. He could hear his mother’s voice beside him, murmuring apologies into his ear as he tried to digest the sight before him, and yet he couldn’t speak.

Couldn’t find the words to describe the slow crumbling of his world, as pieces fell before him, and him powerless to do anything to prevent it.

\--

An academy representative visited him a week after he was discharged from the hospital.

They had to remove him from the program.

They were  _ extremely sorry _ to have to do so, they said, but the scholarship had to go to someone else.

Jongin merely stared at the woman who had her hands clasped on her lap, his eyes empty as they stared at her fingers, noting the impatient tapping she had tried to conceal with her other hand as she tried to make Jongin sign the pre-termination contract of his scholarship and other documents.

Truly, the picture of regret, he thought as he gingerly reached for the pen with his uninjured arm, grunting more for flair rather than a reaction to a legitimate twinge of pain in an attempt to perhaps, pull some heartstrings—something this woman nor anyone in the academy didn’t have.

Jongin wasn’t stupid, this was an obvious move to rid themselves of the effort of finding out who attacked him that night.

He signed his name as best he could with his right hand, injured as it was, just to be rid of her.

His mother gave him a sorrowful glance before she sent the woman off, pressing her lips into a semblance of a smile as she locked the door behind her. She stared at Jongin, who was seated primly at near the window, his eyes deceivingly blasé as he stared at the view beyond the glass despite the anger set into the harsh line of his clenched jaw and fingers threatening to tear holes onto the blanket over his legs.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” She whispered, walking closer to her son to stroke his hair gently. Jongin looked up at her with the same apathetic look in his eyes—uncaring and uninterested—as she slowly took in the yellowing bruises around his cheeks and eyes and the healing cuts by his brow and lips, which slid up into a smile.

A sincere one, or so she thought, before sighing to herself.

“You have nothing to apologize for, Mother.”

\--

After months of grueling therapy that had Jongin sweating bullets and grinding his teeth to get through, his therapist had signed him off, remarking his outstanding recovery in the short amount of time he had spent in recovery.

The metal braces holding his bones in place had long been removed, leaving a line of ugly scars down the side of his leg, the once pristine skin now marked with an ugly reminder of his past and all that was taken away from him.

“I really must congratulate you, Jongin. I’ve never had a patient so determined to get better.” Jongin smiled up at the young doctor, all saccharine and deceivingly coy that doctor flushed a bright pink that clashed oh so terribly against the green of his scrubs. “I just wanted to walk to the other side of the room without my mother rushing to help me, that’s all.” He murmured.

The doctor, Park, if he remembered correctly, simply patted his shoulder before sitting down next to him on the bench where Jongin had his formerly injured leg stretched out. “That’s great!” Dr. Park was all bright smiles and positive reinforcement, and if Jongin were being honest, he was sick of it. “But, I do have to be honest with you, Jongin.”

“What is it?” Jongin asked, the pit in his stomach filling up with anxiety as the young doctor’s expression grew almost grim.

“I know you’ve come into this expecting that you would gain full use of your legs again, but I’m afraid—” He cut Dr. Park off. He had heard this tirade from his uncle multiple times during his arguments with his still hopeful mother, that he’d never be able to dance ever, and even if he could, he would never be able to dance at his level before the injury.

It’s something Jongin had reluctantly accepted, with downcast eyes and his bottom lip between his teeth to stop himself from lashing out. “I know what you’re going to say, and I went into this knowing full well that I would never be able to do so again.” He explained, massaging the stiffness away from his muscles and twisting his ankle gingerly and frowning at the lack of flexibility.

His nails dug into the back of his knee as he ground his teeth together before he met eyes with the young doctor, who looked appropriately morose for his patient’s current predicament. It seemed like he had desperately wanted to say something else to break up the awkward air as Jongin zipped up his bag and packed his belongings, but Jongin didn’t care about what he wanted to say, nor did he want to hear it.

Thankfully, Dr. Park had been a man gifted with tact, smiling at him as he bid Jongin goodbye with a curt yet joking,  _ ‘Good luck, and hope to never see you again. _ ’

Jongin limped away from the Rehabilitation center and boarded a familiar bus route with a determined gaze in his eyes, and an almost imperceptible snarl to his lip as the old campuses surrounding the institute whisked beside him as the sun set behind them.

If he couldn’t dance again, then they shouldn’t have to either.

\--

He waited with bated breath at the far end of the theatre, smirking to himself in satisfaction as the poor sod they elected to replace him struggled to even execute a fouetté properly—frowning at the shaky pirouette and the frankly shoddy rond de jambes as he extended his leg.

What a poor sod, he thought, as the instruction signaled for the music to stop to criticize the new dancer on what Jongin had observed. Even at Jongin’s distance from the stage, he could recognize the press of the dancer’s lips, the ugly curl it had when its owners swung at him months ago.

Jongin almost wanted to laugh at how much this ponce had overestimated himself to think that he would even come close to his level—much less replace him.

The utter nerve, he breathed out as his hands shook with barely concealed rage.

He could barely even remember limping across the old theatre, passing behind the heavy drapes and the white-knuckled grip he had on his clutch as he swung it hard to crush bone and leaving the tiled bathroom floors of the ballet institute stinking of iron for days to come, leaving his throat burning by the bile rising from his stomach—from guilt, or the residual anger perhaps, he couldn’t tell—as he walked out, gritting his teeth as he hobbled over to the nearest payphone.

_ There has been an attack on the Ballet Institute _ , he breathed out, the white-knuckled grip he had on the receiver had only loosened when he slammed it back onto the phone.

\--

It hadn’t even been a week until his uncle had set down the folder one afternoon while his mother had been out to get a number of ingredients for that night’s dinner, his fingers ceasing their task of peeling the radishes to peak into the contents of the bone white folder, which was incredibly jarring on the rich amber of the dinner table.

“You always seemed like the perfect child, Jongin.” His uncle started, as Jongin stared at the faces permanently stuck in terror, their broken limbs never to heal like his and the dull burgundy of dried blood all over the ocean blue tiles. “Obedient, intelligent, but I knew there was a catch to all the talent you have been blessed with.”

Jongin’s fingers sifted over the different photos with the same subjects, not even bothered in the least bit as the other continued to speak, the dripping faucet in the background not messing with his uncle’s many tirades. 

He pushed the urge to roll his eyes, grinding his teeth until his jaw ached. He didn’t feel the need to be chastised so cryptically like this. 

“I don’t know where it came from, but I always knew that anger always bubbling over the surface will spill over one day.”

He closed the folder and wordlessly set back on the table, before staring at him in the eye and opening his mouth for the first time in minutes. “It seems like it did, Uncle.”

The expression on his uncle’s pensive face hadn’t been something Jongin was able to recognize—disappointment, anger and what seemed like a tinge of gross wonder and curiosity sparked in his eyes as they both sat in thick silence. “It’s going to upset Mother if she sees that, you know.” Jongin said, resuming his task of slicing the vegetables on the table.

“I’m not going to be staying for dinner, Jongin. Don’t bother with that.”

The chopping ceased, then Jongin looked up and cocked his head to the side as he scrutinized his father’s brother standing across the table. “And you had the gall to send my mother out to get your favorite. I never pegged you for a heartless man, Uncle.” He smiled at Jongin’s familiar scathing tone, shaking the comment off.

He was a military man, forever shrouded in mystery doing God knows what and suddenly harvested a handful of merits for what is was worth, the person who had unavoidably ingrained himself in Jongin’s life after his father’s death years ago.

Needless to say, all of Jongin’s scathing remarks had a layer of animosity beneath them.

“You know I am not, Jongin. I care about you.” He commented, shaking his head as he pulled out a chair to sit, lacing his fingers together on the table as he returned Jongin’s calculating stare. “This is a beautiful house, Jongin. Your career,” he trailed off as he eyed the living room and the rest of the house. “though short-lived, was fruitful.”

Jongin couldn’t stifle the breath he let out as he grinned at the man in disbelief. “You wound me, Uncle.”

“Now, I know maintaining a house like this is going to make a dent in your savings, and with the months you spent in rehab, I’d give it less than a year before you and your mother really feel the strain of your injury on your life.” The man shook his head, making Jongin scoff at the concern bleeding into his tone. “And with this under your belt,” he tapped on the folder with a bony finger twice, “it’ll just cause your mother more pain.”

Jongin leaned back in his chair as his uncle tucked the folder back into the breast pocket of his coat, crossing his arms over his chest. “I assume there is a reason as to why you’re here instead of the police, pray tell then, Uncle.”

“I’ll cut you a deal Jongin. I’ll put in a word for you in my unit and I promise this,” He tapped his chest. “is as good as gone for good, and your mother will never have to think about money ever again.”

“You want me to enlist? With my good as shit leg that barely functions in the winter? I think you’re out of your mind.”

“Would you rather be in prison, instead?”

Jongin found himself deflating against the hard wood of the chair, his lungs rattling in his chest as he struggled to breathe in. “Ah. It seems like I managed to beat you in the battle of the wills today, Jongin.” His uncle remarked, the condescending lilt to his tone had the urge to punch him between the eyes rush up into Jongin’s mind.

“Don’t worry, I’m not waiting for an immediate answer.” He stood up, even leaning down to press a kiss on Jongin’s temple. “You know where to call me should your mind ever change, Jongin.” He whispered, straightening up in time before Jongin’s mother rounded up into the kitchen with a handful of groceries.

“Miyoung, forgive me, but there is something that requires my assistance back at the office.” He explained, the apologetic tone of his voice made Jongin curl his fingers into the wool of his pants in anger. “Oh, that’s a shame.” His mother remarked, smiling up at his uncle nonetheless. “You’re welcome to come by later if time allows it, alright?”

“Of course. Jongin.” He waved, to which Jongin merely nodded in acknowledgment.

\--

Two weeks later, he found himself in the military headquarters, sitting on a lumpy sofa as he felt the imposing grey walls of the office stare him down as hard as his Uncle’s secretary across the desk he was seated in front of.

His uncle, though surprised at him being at his office, had expected him. He said so as soon as they were alone in the courtyard, their cigarette smoke curling into the wind as the stick lingered between his fingers. “You took your time.”

Jongin flicked a little bit of ash from his cigarette, before taking a deep drag to calm his nerves. “A career change is never easy, Uncle.”

“You made the right choice, Jongin. Your father would’ve been proud.” His uncle remarked, smiling down at him almost menacingly.

\--

Jongin broke into his office three months later, screaming bloody murder at the secretary and kicking down the doors as if he had never injured his legs in the first place. His Uncle’s affronted expression had given him a sense of delight before he threw the folder in the middle of the desk.

He could barely conceal the anger—white and hot flashing behind his eyelids and making his blood surge in his veins as he pointed at the papers with a hiss. “What is this.”

The man behind the desk took one look and answered him blandly. “Your assignment, of course.”

Jongin reached over to jab his finger into the obvious red ink stamped over his information sheet and laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re sending me to whore school.” He whispered, chest heaving with every word as his fingers snatched away the single piece of paper away from the rest of the file.

“The Fifth Institute chose you. I didn’t choose to assign you anywhere as that is beyond my jurisdiction.” His uncle continued as if Jongin hadn’t broken the lock on his door minutes ago and was a lit dynamite in front of him at the moment, unpredictable and volatile as he struggled to breathe. “To become a sparrow is a privilege, Jongin.”

“We both know that sparrows are as good as whores, Uncle, and you let me become one, you let them! I trusted you!” Jongin spat out, throwing the crumpled piece of paper down at the table.

“You and I know both know that was a terrible choice, Jongin.”

Jongin absolutely despised the fact that he agreed with his uncle, for the first time of his life.

\--

The Fifth Institute was humiliating, to say the least.

Jongin had been stripped of his identity and dignity within minutes of entering the institute, and by the time he had graduated and deployed to his first assignment, he had been an empty vessel of his former self.

He remembered the Matron, the dull green of her uniform, the dark hair she had pulled up in a bun that made her features more imposing and the perpetually tight-lipped expression she had as she measured each and every one that entered her doors with a look of resigned fury for those especially stubborn ones like Jongin.

It had been a battle of wills with her—Jongin noted. She had scrutinized Jongin for any faults, any slip-ups so she could dispose of him but Jongin wouldn’t going to die on that hill just yet.

Each weekly assessment had him grinding through all the lessons merely due to spite over her, over his uncle and the unfairness of his situation.

Whether be it picking a lock, assembling an assault rifle, unraveling a person through his words or using his mouth to get a man off the quickest way possible, he excelled through all of them with unshaken resolve despite the numbness in his jaw and the tremors in his hands.

He had no more dignity to lose in that hell hole anyway.

Jongin forced himself to discard all self-respect to claw his way through espionage and human behavior classes, bashing his knuckles into some sorry asshat who dared underestimate him and spreading his legs for whomever and getting on his back for whatever assignment they were given that week.

Jongin, after all, was an obedient, intelligent and talented child—a jewel in this otherwise degenerate building that trained obedient whores and smart playthings—trained to hide all of his ugly truths behind a curtain of thick lashes, pretty smiles, and lingering fingers.

The same fingers that dug graves for his squad mates who couldn’t swallow the humiliation and shame of what they were doing and what they were to become, choosing to end their lives instead of choosing to endure as Jongin did.

When the newest squadron of soldiers to be used for their human behavior classes arrived that night, and stubbed fingers found themselves in Jongin’s hair as they drove into his body, Jongin thought through the sting in his scalp and pride that they had it better.

As he dug his hands into the scratchy linen of the bed, he grit his teeth.

The dead definitely had it better.

\--

Sparrows were never deployed in the same area and if they were, they were made unaware of it.

Jongin had never had the experience of this sort of…set up…before.

Jongin had never known what his objective was—staying in Amsterdam, but with the way that his side of the apartment had looked more lived in, presumably older man thought he’d been here for quite some time.

Shixun was never in their apartments long enough for him to notice anything, but it there was one thing he had noticed, Shixun was quite the creature of habit.

The other sparrow had kept to himself most of the time and had spoken not more than four times to Jongin in the two weeks he was living with him—Jongin would always hear four clicks in succession every time he would come back, two turns for the lock on the front door, and the next two for his room.

Shixun had drunkenly told him that it’d be better if they kept to themselves while they were here, and Jongin had half the mind to retort that he wasn’t a child that needed to be reminded to rules time and time again.

Shixun also told him to keep his nose away from his business, and he’d do the same.

Unfortunately for Shixun, it was hard to keep anyone’s nose out of his business when he had done everything so haphazardly and openly. Shixun—no, Sehun, as he saw from the ledge of the window, carved roughly into the weakening wood in shaky hanggul letters—was a bleeding heart.

Jongin thought about Sehun, and how he was terrible at disposing of evidence. Jongin found a small torn part of a note with half a phrase on it— _ Miss you. J,  _ it said, on the bathroom when he's about to dye his hair back to brown since he had received word that his new designation was to be sent in a few days.

_ Oh no _ , he thought as he took a deep drag and let the nicotine soothe his perpetually erratic nerves.

He knew Sehun was in love with someone—it was a terrible idea, as Sehun was practically walking down the path of his own death, because for a sparrow with attachments, it was an immediate death sentence.

Jongin kept his mouth shut, as he had always done. He and Sehun aren’t friends after all.

It was better to keep it that way, but the semblance of a friendship they have as they pretend to be normal in the small slivers of time they could actually be human was soothing, like the way Sehun's hands massaging the dye into his hair, whom despite his protests to help, had slipped on some gloves and snatched the bottle from him and pushed him down a stool.

“If you want it done properly, let me do it.”

They don’t make small talk though. Time is too important to waste on the mundane things when they were bursting at the seams with secrets, but despite being able to read the room, Sehun still asked about the sight of a fading bite mark at Jongin's nape, a remnant of his time in Germany.

Jongin gave a vague answer, and Sehun, though doubtful, fortunately deemed it enough. The older of the two clenched his fist over the single piece of paper in his palm, debating on telling Sehun that he knew.

So he tried his best to be discreet.

He smiled at the younger, patting Sehun’s shoulder as thanks and helping him out of the gloves, using that as an excuse to slip the worn out paper between their fingers. Jongin spared him a glance that lasted too long to be nothing, and the fear in Sehun's eyes confirmed that it was his emotions and his attachments that were going to be the noose around his neck.

It was only a matter of time until someone kicked the stool from under Sehun’s feet.

\--

It was a week later that Jongin was finally sent an information packet for his cover as he was having coffee in the city square, another drop off it seemed. A flustered woman, with books and envelopes piled high on her arms, had asked if she could share the table, a few minutes later, she had bid him goodbye and left a folder in her place.

He had picked up the file and riffled through the false documents—he was to be Kai Kim, a translator for the Korean embassy stationed in Amsterdam. The file was pretty sparse—a new passport and some letters to strengthen his new identity, and was told to build up routine in the embassy, all he had to do was show up the following week, and someone would approach him.

Yet no instructions on who.

Jongin sighed, tucking the envelope into his coat and made his way back into the apartment, the familiar barking of the dog on the third floor had irked his nerves the same way routine always did. Something was off in the air, and the dog seemed more agitated than usual, but that could only mean someone had just passed through these doors just moments before.

And he knew all the residents were all at work, or school at this hour.

Even Sehun wasn’t here at this time of day.

The sinking feeling in his stomach was further confirmed when he twisted his key on the lock and it opened up after one turn.

Sehun always turned it twice.

The scent of roses was thick and cloying as it mingled with the metallic stench of blood in the room. Wrinkling his nose at the scent, he walked around quietly, muscles tensed and ready for whatever may appear as he made his way down the hall.

He stopped in front of the kitchen table, staring at the wine dripping on the floor from the glass knocked over and rose petals all over the table from the destroyed bouquet on the sink. As he looked down, he saw a picture of Sehun and a man taken from far away, hands intertwined and their faces alight with happiness.

That was the happiest Sehun had ever looked since Jongin met him, especially with that spark of affection in his eyes, but once he saw the picture under it with the same man but now, a woman that seemed to be cradling a bundle in her arms, smiling down at it, dread made his blood stand still in his veins.

When he turned it over, the elegant script seemed to taunt him as he had pieced it together. 

__

_ “What a terrible thing it is, to love and be betrayed.” _

Sehun had fallen in love with a married man.

And once he had turned around and walked to the hall that led straight to the bathroom, he saw Sehun, laying in the tub in a pool of his own blood.

Eyes bloodshot and mouth hanging open, blood crusting over the corners and down his chest.

Or what remained of it.

Sehun’s ribs looked like it had been pried open with bare hands, and judging by the arm hanging from the edge of the tub, fingers crusted with dried blood, he was alive when this was done to him, trying to fight off his attacker.

The sudden vibration of the phone in his pocket had him letting out a shaky breath as he kept his eyes glued on the gruesome scene before him, Jongin’s fingers shook as he dug his phone out of his coat, answering the call without any hesitation.

_ "Shame what had happened to Shixun. He was talented, that one. but he could never compare to you, Kai, darling. Be a good boy and go out for a walk. Would you please?" _ The artificially saccharine voice asked him, whilst Jongin nodded without a word.

_ "Now there's a good boy. Off you go, then.” _

Jongin had stepped out of the apartment with his face pale, hands shaking and his knees weak as he fell into the gravel.

Sehun was an idiot.

They were expendable. They were tools to be utilized and Sehun forgot that—Sehun forgot his place in this world—Sparrows weren’t supposed to be human—his mind supplied weakly, they were meant to be tools, utilized until they grew obsolete.

It seemed that Sehun had become another obsolete tool for them to discard so, so easily.

\--

Mere hours later, Jongin had returned to the apartment, opening the door with shaky hands only to find it spotless, as if it didn’t reek of blood and alcohol moments before. Shixun’s door had been left open, the bedroom pristine with pale green sheets and the closets empty.

It was as if Shixun had ceased to exist at all. Another one of the Fifth Institute’s specialties, aside from implanting an absurd amount of incriminating evidence, they also made people disappear through covert means.

He pushed the door of the bathroom gingerly, as if he feared to see Shixun's lifeless body in the tub again but nothing.

The tiles gleamed under the bright light of the bathroom, the tub spotless and the room even smelling of roses.

Jongin let out a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding when he sat down onto the couch on the living room, inhaling deeply to prepare himself when his phone rang once more. “ _ So, Kai, how was your walk? Do you like what we’ve done with the place?” _

__

“It was fine, a little cold.” He paused, eyes busy scaling the living room for anything that could indicate that Shixun actually existed before everything happened. “I passed by the Rijksmuseum earlier,” Jongin remarked to fill the empty air, swallowing to make the dryness of his throat dissipate.  _ “I’ll let you visit that one of these days, don’t you worry.” _

“Yes. You’ve replaced the bulb in the bathroom. Thank you.” He added.

__

_ “That’s why I have a soft spot for you Kai, darling, you’re easy to instruct and polite too. Don’t worry your pretty little head over the garbage. We’ve taken care of it.”  _ The voice laughed off, while Jongin merely nodded his head in agreement numbly as if he wasn’t quashing the need to throw up.

__

_ “Speaking of, I’ve left you a gift on the table, just on your right. Read on that, but I’ll save you some of the time. Your assignment is to get to know Doh Kyungsoo, the youngest candidate to become the general of our troops.”  _

__

Jongin reached over and skimmed the file, thick but a good chunk of it was classified—as expected of his status—but all Jongin had was his name, age and ID number, nothing else.

_ “Now, don’t pull that face yet, darling. That’s why you need to get to know him. Now, once Doh Kyungsoo is appointed as Colonell, he will have a vote on both military and state affairs, and the Fifth Institute needs him as an ally for the longevity of the programme. _ ” The voice continued.  _ “Do whatever needs to be done, Kai. You know how this works. Sacrifice what needs to be sacrificed.” _

“Of course, I understand.”

_ “I will expect a progress report in two weeks, and I’ve done my best to give you more of a lead into Doh Kyungsoo, so read up on that. Goodbye, Kai.” _

And with that, the line went dead and Jongin immediately got to work with formulating his plan of action.

A name and an age, but not even a face.

Doh Kyungsoo was a fucking enigma to the point that any more censorship on his files and he’d considered as good as a sparrow, fleeting and almost nonexistent. He sifted through the files and looked into the hotel where the older man was seen in passing, the pictures on file only capturing glimpses of the man’s face but it was a good place to start looking.

Jongin sighed, digging in his pockets to fish out his lighter as he walked to the kitchen, dumping the files into the sink before setting it on fire, watching the running water wash away the ashes.

He needed to get changed for work.

\--

Jongin blinked himself out of a daze from the piano playing on the far end of the bar as he was offered a drink, sliding into character seamlessly as he smiled coyly as his fingers curled around the stem of the glass, gauging its strength as a weapon before raising it in thanks to the man on the other side of the bar.

He took a small sip of the drink, humming in contentment upon realizing it was top shelf liquor before smirking to himself as the man slowly rose from his seat to make their way beside him. They just couldn't resist.

"I've never seen you here before." The man offered in perfect English, making him laugh at the pure predictability of this man. Jongin crossed his legs and rested his chin onto the arm he had resting on the counter. "I assume there is another half to that line?" He offered, making the other chuckle at his words and shaking his head at them. "No. None that I know of. Just plain curiosity, I assure you." 

"Now, what is it about me that's made you so curious, Mr.?" Jongin trailed off, sipping at his drink as he discreetly checked the man out—clear military training or experience judging from the sturdy line of his shoulders and impeccable posture, yet charming enough that the signature arrogance of a military man seemed to dissipate behind his clean-cut image. He almost compared him to his uncle, but this man had a more trustworthy air to him.

“Doh. I’m Doh Kyungsoo.” The man stated with an easy going smile as he offered his hand to Jongin to shake, the other staring at it for a few seconds before shaking it gently. Quite the grip, Jongin noted to himself, and rich—the bespoke suit and the watch hanging of his wrist was a clear indicator of his status if the top shelf liquor he bought strangers wasn’t enough to tell. 

Jongin almost wanted to say that he didn’t know the military had paid so well, but then again, he wasn’t in a state-run prison, and according to the institute, his so called freedom alone was payment enough for his services.

“You are?”

“Kai.” 

_ Hook. _

Kyungsoo’s lips slid into a pretty smile, letting go off Jongin’s hand from his grip. “A pleasure to meet you, Kai.” He replied, sipping at his whiskey with this now unoccupied hand yet his eyes lingered on Jongin with crystal clear intent, one that Jongin thrived in.

_ Line.  _

Oh, this was a game Jongin was all too familiar with and was all too willing to play with Kyungsoo.

Jongin let himself give Kyungsoo a clear, unabashed once over above the rim of his cocktail glass before smirking. “Oh, believe me, the pleasure is all mine, Kyungsoo.”

****

_ And sinker. _

****

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This was a challenge okay. I don't know what I'm doing haha omygod.
> 
> Also, come yell at me at my twitter: @the_conjongin where I'll yell right back at ya


End file.
